#a story for children

[soracities]

“He saw the past, present, and future like three drunk friends reeling as they walked, left and right . . . forward and back. . . running into one another . . . fighting . . . stabbing each other . . . losing their memory. He saw the skies raining gold and the people burying it so deep in the ground no human hand could reach it, then going back to their homes weeping from the weight of poverty and deprivation. He saw love’s emaciated body soaring with two huge wings of hate.”

Osama Alomar, “A Story for Children” (tr. C.J. Collins)

[emotional-piece-of-meat]

Dick and Jason mutually agreed that if one of them calls Bruce "dad", the other does not say a word. 

Some criminal, which they caught: nice toys, kid.

Robin!Jason aka ray of sunshine: thanks. My dad made them for me.

Dick, trying to hold a laugh because it's cute: pff.

Jason: ?

Some criminal, confused: dad?

Jason, realizing what he just said and quickly turning red: Batman! I mean Batman! Batman made them for me!

Dick, already planning to blackmail him: aha, whatever you say, shorty.

On the same patrol.

Nightwing, doing something incredibly stupid: hah, dad's gonna soooo mad.

Jason "it's my turn, bitch" Todd: did you just call him dad?

Dick "stubborn ass" Grayson: no, I didn't.

Jason: yes, you did.

Dick: no, I did not!

Jason: yes. You. Did!

Dick, realizing that he lost: ...we won't mention it ever again.

Jason: deal.

[whalesfall]

btw. your search for the most morally upright and ethical piece of media that has the most correct “representation” will destroy your ability to find the most profound and beautiful and human of stories. and may even destroy the stories themselves before they are created. if you even care.

[treasureplcnet]

(lia voice) rolan you're 26. you should be at the pub

[loveinstreams]

like don’t you get it? by hunting ghosts you become a part of them. a presence that lingers. the memories you are making here right now is also what will survive of this place. it’s also what will haunt it.

[lepetitdragonvert]

Thumbkin and Other Stories

Text Version by W. K. Holmes

Artist : Barbara C. Freeman (1906-1999)

Blackie & Son Limited

London and Glascow

[vanessagillings]

Something a little different today! The main illustration project I’m working on at the moment is a large gallery show opening next year. I’m going to keep most of the art hush hush for now, but here’s a tiny preview of one of the pieces! There’ll be a collection of spots like this as well as full-bleed pieces. I’ll tell you more about it closer to. Happy Friday, friends! 🌿

[mxtxfanatic]

People will claim that Shen Qingqiu is an unreliable narrator which (ignoring the fact that the story is in 3rd POV) is true, but they make the claim in reference to his thoughts and feelings about Luo Binghe (false) when they should be making it about how he views himself. Cause why is this man so casual about the fact that he became a leading instructor at a prestigious school he just happened to waltz into because he was bored? Why did it take an extra to learn that he actually spent most of Luo Binghe’s time in the abyss doing missions off the peak to run from his grief? Why did we have to find out that, due to their bullying of Luo Binghe, he was every Bai Zhan Peak disciple’s worst nightmare from Shang Qinghua???

[themoonwoodmillstory]

Sunday is Laundry Day.

[strawberrystepmom]

cw children, cw families. gojo and f!reader were idiots in love and they are now married and have a baby. my effortlessly good painter gojo hc won out over being normal in my brain today so yeah. reader is referred to as mom/mama/mother and princess, satoru makes a joke about readers breasts. wc 1.1k

Your morning has started far quieter than they usually do.

The day is overcast, no sunshine through your floor to ceiling bedroom windows, but you don’t mind. It feels good to embrace the cloudy days that have come with the changing of seasons, no harsh light to shock you awake. That job will be for your identical menaces in the coming months, the gummy smile of your morning person nine month old and her unabashedly obsessed father Satoru always eager to be your twin alarm clocks with their giggling and playful babbling at each other.

There’s nothing they love more than giving you the gift of four identical blue eyes blinking at you while you come to your senses every morning. You can almost admit aloud that you’ve become a morning person since becoming a parent, the delightful giggles of your daughter giving you the motivation to conquer anything and everything you can.

For today though, you wake gently, softly rolling from your side to flat on your back but something feels off. There are no hushed giggles, no silly songs being recited with children’s show host precision.

Your bed is empty and quiet and you feel…sad. Perhaps in the past you would’ve found this to be a luxury - no freakishly long limbs of your husband starfished across the bed to keep you pinned to it, no baby to tug at the earrings you forgot to take out last night, but instead it just feels like a less welcome start to the day.

Lingering in bed doesn’t feel good so you roll again, dropping your legs over the edge and sliding your feet into your waiting slippers. Scuffing across the floor, you yawn and stop in your tracks hearing voices from inside Satoru’s closet.

Well, a voice and some baby giggles, anyway.

“Can you say mama?”

Leaning against the door frame of the walk in, you stifle a laugh listening to your husband babble at his little girl who babbles back excitedly. Peeking around the corner, you see him standing in front of the portrait of you that he painted on your 24th birthday, little babe held to his chest and leaning her head on his shoulder.

“That’s her, that’s right. Your perfect mom.”

He sighs and your heart squeezes watching the two of them sway side to side, your baby who is growing into an independent toddler every day reaching out as if she recognizes your face. You’re sure she does, actually; the painting is an impeccable likeness and it still frustrates you 6 years later that he managed to become so good at a craft you’ve spent your life working on in less than a month.

Someday you’ll tell her the entire story, your version of it anyway. For now you’re content to let her father tell his side considering it was one of the most grand and romantic gestures he had performed at the time in an effort to show you how serious he was about your relationship.

“Listen, little girl,” he starts, unknowing that he has captured both of your attention. “I know I’m going to have to tell you this again eventually but do not ever bring a man or woman or anyone else into this house that loves you less than I love your mother.”

She coos at the sound of his voice and he chuckles down at her, kissing the downy white hair atop her head.

“I mean it. If they won’t stay up for four nights straight to get a start on painting your nose from memory, leave ‘em behind.”

With this, you giggle and the attention of both of your menaces is captured. Your daughter squeals from over Satoru’s shoulder, holding one little hand out and making a grabbing motion and he copies her excited babbling with his own.

“My little tricksters snuck out of bed this morning!”

Grinning, you cradle your little girl against your chest and kiss her temple, inhaling the clean smell of her shampoo and skin. She’s been bathed and everything.

“You’re the best.”

You feel the need to remind Satoru at this moment and he grins, bending to give you a good morning kiss.

“Duh.”

Giggling, you let your wiggly daughter settle herself and the three of you stand in front of the painting. You recognize the younger woman permanently captured in it, the soft lovesick look in her eyes, and it amuses you to know he took extra time to capture you exactly like that. Hopelessly in love.

He could capture you using the same medium and you’d look identical to how you did back then - utterly stricken.

“Did you really stay up practicing for four nights?”

“Princess, I stayed up practicing for four weeks.”

You snort, looking up at him from the corner of your eye.

“There’s no need to embellish now, you’ve already won me over.”

He shrugs, pulling the two of you close to his chest. He leans over his little family, cheek resting against the top of your head.

“But what if I never want to stop winning you?”

You reach up and brush his hair off of his forehead affectionately. Every touch you give him is full of love and every glance carries tenderness.

There will come a time when your daughter will be old enough to gawk at the love the two of you have for one another. Maybe she’ll stick her tongue out and roll her eyes just as you remember her father doing more than once or perhaps she’ll simply smile and hide her face in the collar of her shirt, dreaming of a love like what’s in front of her someday.

“I mean, I could paint you again. You are coming up on the big three oh and I have to say that a few things have grown since back then if you know what I mean.”

He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and drops his voice suggestively low. You flick him on the forehead and laugh about it, your daughter joining in on your giggles as a nine month old is apt to do.

The thing you hope she’ll understand the most is that sometimes love isn’t just big paintings and grand gestures and sweet looks. It’s being grounded enough to give each other a hard time when things are good and a good time when things are hard.

You are fortunate enough to have the best of everything with her father.

“Let’s go make breakfast, Monet.”

You turn on your heel and your husband follows closely behind, small steps to match your own. He looks over his shoulder one final time to look at the painting of you on his closet wall and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Whatever you say, my muse.”

[mournfulroses]

Louise Glück, from Winter Recipes from the Collective: Poems; "A Children's Story,"

[taxinealkaloids]

horrible children who are. so so mean to each other

[lazylittledragon]

what do you mean youre technically a detransitioner cause of terf bullshit?

it's a v long story but i detransitioned for a couple of years when i was 16/17, for multiple reasons but mostly because i fell into the blaire white/kalvin garrah chamber of "you have to be This way to be trans otherwise you're not real".

i was already Deeply insecure about myself and my 'passing' and i was led to believe that i couldn't want to wear makeup or skirts, and i couldn't choose not to have bottom surgery, and i couldn't do anything but bind for 12+ hours a day to the point that my ribcage is still misshapen. basically i thought that if i wasn't suffering enough doing 'feminine' things, i couldn't really be trans, so i should just go back to being a girl and suck it up.

the terf bullshit is because i'd seen a lot of terfs/detransitioners talking about the 'dangers' of testosterone and how it would turn me into a horrible ugly evil monster and how there was nothing worse than wanting to be a man. which combined with 'you need to fully medically transition to be valid at all' creates some very dangerous and upsetting feelings to cope with.

it also came from trying really hard to put myself in a little box before i realised that my sexuality/gender are very fluid and it's FINE for me not to have a label and just do whatever i want. when i was 19 or so i went back to using they/them (and eventually he/him) and changed my name again because even though i like doing 'feminine' things, i don't want to be seen as a woman.

tldr: i was conditioned by transphobic/terf rhetorics to think that i was being trans the 'wrong' way so i couldn't be trans at all, so i believed i must actually be a girl if i still wanted to do 'feminine' things. nowadays i am a transmasc who does feminine things because i don't give two shits about what any transmed prick thinks of me anymore.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

M'lady, doth this harlot bother thee?

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[high-quality-tiktoks]

This is hands down the most important video I’ve ever made. Please listen.

[lepetitdragonvert]

La petite sirène / The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Andersen

Éditions ipomée - albin michel

1998

Artist :Boris Diodorov